My journey started with a short flight — Sioux Falls to Minneapolis.
Routine. Uneventful. Gate 6A. The kind of flight where the world still feels local.
But when I scanned my ticket, the boarding agent looked up and said one word:
“Lovely.”
Not “You’re all set.”
Not “Have a good flight.”
Just — lovely.
Strange word to hear from an American woman.
We don’t say that often.
Not without some irony, or at least a heavy Midwest accent to weigh it down.
But she said it like she meant it.
Like it belonged.
It hung in the air for a second.
A word that didn’t quite match the hum of the jet bridge or the dragging of carry-ons.
And maybe that’s what made it feel important.
Like someone had just dropped a breadcrumb on the trail.
Not a sign. Just… a nudge.
After all, isn’t that what we’re all hoping for?
That something lovely is waiting,
somewhere just past security,
past the layovers and delays,
past the frozen phones and glitchy bookings,
past the moment you almost gave up…
and booked the wrong place.
But instead,
you got Georgia.
You got The Beehive.
You got “two guests” when you only planned on one.
And someone — somewhere — looked at your journey and said:
“Lovely.”